


The Moment

by AshaBlue



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Frostback Mountains, Inner Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:51:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshaBlue/pseuds/AshaBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the hours fore the Herald is found in the Forstbacks after the fall of Haven. Solas grapples with the possibility that she might have died and that he might have felt more for her than he ever wanted to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moment

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at fanfiction in years. I'm working on improving my writing in general. Thank you for reading and being kind.

The night was deep and they were in an unknown place, walking without any idea if they were moving away from the danger or towards it. They stopped only for a moment to hear the mountain roar as it buried Haven before moving on again. Their pace was slow and arduous. A mix of exhaustion, hopelessness, and physical pain confronted by the harsh winds, deep snow and poor terrain of the mountain. They kept moving until they could no longer hear the screech of the dragon or see the smoke rising from the ruins of Haven. It was unclear who made the decision or gave the order, but suddenly one by one the caravan of refugees stopped. It was not an ideal spot, but it was a valley and it would have to do. The wind, harsh as it was had grown, suggesting even worse to come. In hushed whispers people moved to set up fires and put up shelter, struggling against the gusts and cutting snow. Solas, Varic and Iron Bull arrived just in time to see the slow work of building what could hardly be called a camp. As they walked through the camp in search for Cassandra, they saw people sitting near cold, dead fires, collapsed tents, their eyes vacant, faces and posture defeated.

 

As soon as they left Erabela to her fate with Coryphius Solas, Varic and Iron Bull did not speak a word. Even as they searched the mountain trail for signs of the refugees to follow, they barely even looked at each other. They did not need to fill the silence with what they all knew and felt over leaving her there. Normally Solas would have welcomed the quiet, even as they struggled to make way through knee high snow. Yet for once he wished to hear Varic pratle on, would have reveled in listening to Iron Bull’s stories if only to take his mind off his own thoughts. He had fallen out of the habit of having his mind so thrown into confusion and chaos, and so at a loss over the emotions that mingled with thoughts, rationalization, and memories that ripped and tore at him with deliberate and quiet persistence. He never imagined, when he first saw her unconscious after the conclave, the Erabela would be his undoing.

 

Each time he closed his eyes he saw her standing between Coryphius and the dragon, buying them time to escape, ordering them to leave her. It was then, as he ran with the rest that something caused him to pause and look back, his eyes met hers for just an instant, a moment that now burned itself into his memory. It was then that he knew what his feelings were even as he now fought to deny them. There she was, pressed up against the trebuchet, a sword in her hand, a devious smile on her lips as she faced the monster whose power she could not fathom. A smile that quivered for a moment as she saw Solas still there, still in harms way as her eyes looked on desperate, urging him to go.

 

How could she be so determined to die for a town of people she hardly knew, people who spat and snarled at her when they first met her? Who only saw beyond the pointer ears once she became their only salvation against the breach? For her friends and companions who left so eagerly to save themselves and who would not do the same for her?

_She gave her life so willingly, too willingly. We did not deserve such a sacrifice._

_The foolish woman! Solas thought._

 

_Was she so determined to be the martyr and hero they wanted her to be? To what end? Did she not realize what the loss of her power would mean to their cause? What it might mean to…_

He held the thoughts, tried to shape them into anger. Anger he could channel, anger he could live with but for his age he felt small, naive and lost. A deep sorrow took hold, wrapping its claws firmly around his chest, its roots, made of a million regrets and missed moments, burrowing towards his heart.The thought weakened him, made him stumble over a snow bank, the wind tearing the hood off his head. He took a moment as he rose, glancing at the dark, grim sky above them. Even if she knew where they were headed she would have no stars to guide her. 

_If she even made it out of Haven._

“You allright?” It was Iron Bull. He and Varic had stopped some distance ahead, waiting for Solas to catch up. Solas nodded silently and made to close the distance between them. 

 

He tried to steer his mind towards moving his legs and on the spell he used to help them see the disappearing footsteps in the snow. It did not take much focus, but he wanted to feel the magic flow through him, anything to distract his aching mind. In more than one way it was a relief to see the signs of the camp. There would be something there to occupy him. The healers would need help and if Erabela thought these people were worth saving, worth giving her life for, then he would do no less.

As they entered the camp they passed Cassandra, Lillian, Cullen and Josephine arguing, straining to be heard over each other, over the cries of sorrow and screams of pain, and over the the echoes of the mountain that wanted to devour them in its snowy maw. Their argument seemed without goal or purpose except to fill the space left by uncertainty, to draw the mind to something practical and away from speculation and despair. Great warriors, dragon slayers, diplomats, assassins and even a one time god were all like lost children. 

 

Solas had no interest in waiting for them to settle their debate or engage in it, and instead left in search of the healer’s tent. He found the chantry sisters and some mages struggling to raise the large canvas and supports meant to house those needing healing. There were far more injured villagers and soldiers than he realized. Many had lived thanks to Erabela’s sacrifice, but few escaped from the dragon fire without injury.

He assisted in lifting the tent against the storm that was now full and angry and raging upon the refugees. He could hardly see the other fires burning, or if they still burned. Unexpectedly, Cassandra materialised out of the curtain of snow. She had questions. She wanted details. “What did you hear? Who or what was that monster? Was his dragon an archdemon?” she fired off in her usual manner. He assumed Varic and Iron Bull had already informed her that the Herald did not make it out with them.

“This is neither the place nor the time for this, Seeker” Solas shouted back at her, hoping his voice did not sound erate but the volume was necessary to be heard over the sounds of the wind and the multitude of objects it cast about. He pointed to the tent as the injured were carried inside. 

 

“Alright, but we will speak about this later.” Cassandra retorted. Solas understood her frustration, her sense of powerlessness in the face of such overwhelming loss and so many unknowns. He wanted to offer her something, but he did not trust himself then, did not want to talk about what happened until he could still his mind and get a hold on himself.

Solas entered the tent with the injured and spotted Varic nursing a freshly bandaged wrist. He had an urge to reach out a friendly hand, to rest it on the dwarf’s shoulder, to say something, but there was nothing to say that would not be mere pretence.

 _We failed her. We let her die._

 

Mother Gisele, was busy handing out order and supplies to the healers. She noded politely to Solas as he approached her and showed him to where he would be most useful. Healing magic was not his expertise, but he knew enough to be useful and knew the challenge of a magic he so rarely used would force be a welcome distraction. Yet even as he faced the wounds and injuries in front of him he fumbled even simple spells like a novice. Each time he tried to flex the magic within to hone and focus on it on the spell that was needed, it was interrupted by memories that kept forcing themselves to the forefront of his consciousness. Each memory was a reminder of her, and each sharp and brutal, hitting him like Erabela’s own poisoned arrows.

A sprained wrist reminded him of Erabela’s hands, calloused and rough on the quiver of an arrow as she shaped it with a skill honed over the years.

He saw a chantry mother in prayer over a patient and recalled Erabela’s calm expression during target practice, the bow an extension of her limbs.

He heard a child laugh, and recalled Erabelas easy smile when she thought she bested him in an argument about something unimportant, or had made a gibe or joke that had caught him off guard. She seemed to revel in breaking through the cold demeanor he presented.

He heard a mother tell as story to her injured child and could see Erabela’s eyes alive with curiosity and depth as she listened to him talk about the fade. How did she never tire of hearing him go on about the place? How she indulged him and oh how he had let her.

He worked elfroot into a balm and saw her sitting over her table of poisons, the way she tied her hair back when she worked there, held her breath to still her hands. He had never seen someone craft something so deadly with such grace.

Such insignificant, small crumbs of thoughts. A catalogue of memories Solas did not realize he had so carefully archived. Each memory like a trail of clues, leading him back to the question he did not want to answer.

_What it would mean to…No, no, no._

He shook his head, hoping to clear the thoughts.

_This is not how it was supposed to happen._

She was an unforeseen contradiction, an exception to the rules he had so carefully followed, the walls he had so diligently crafted around his heart.

She was not supposed to be so bright and so clever at finding the secret doors and passages through all of these defences.

He grew frustrated. The weight in his chest growing with each image. 

More than anything he wanted to blame Erabela for her indifference to his aloof and cool nature, for being too forgiving of the hurtful words he said about her people, for her curiosity and all the questions she had that played right into his heart. He wanted to blame her for failing to be as he expected, for being surprising, clever and too kind, too beautiful to have become such welcome company and presence he did not realize he missed until she was so out of reach. He wanted to find blame with her very existence, to make her into something that was simply a distraction, a challenge, a test to overcome.

Yet he knew better then most than things wanted are not things so easily got. These were futile musings of a man younger than him, a man who would not know better, a man who could ignore how happy it made him when she smiled or simply casually found her way to his hut, her words polite and careful, “Can you tell me a story?” she would ask.

No whatever, he felt for her now, it was, as was the case so often, not her failure but his. He should have had the tools, the defences, the cold distance should have been enough and yet none of his resolve, ages of wisdom and experience were anything but dust easily swept away by that impossible, improbable Dalish woman.

Would this be how he would remember her and then, inevitably, forget her? He looked down at the young woman in front of him. The one a blue scarf that reminded him of Erabela's eyes. He had cleaned the wounds around her head and had only to bandage them but his hands would not obey. He saw Erabela, laying somewhere injured or dead, her body mangled or burned, her bright blue eyes faded and lifeless and the thought took the air out of his lungs.

He called for a sister and asked her to take over, stumbling to raise himself, practically falling out of the tent into the gale that was now raging outside. He tore at the collar of his tunic, gasping for air, grateful no eyes were on him, thankful for the cover of night and snow.

“Foolish man” he growled under his breath.

He should have seen how close he was getting, how his curiosity had transformed into affection, had grown into..

_What she meant to..._

He would not give the thought form. Would not give the feeling a name. Would not make it real. There were ways to cast it away, lock it up in the places where so much of his pain was already resting, the places where he had kept his loneliness stored away so it would not consume him. 

Solas took a deep breath and braced himself against a nearby pole. He knew it, the moment he looked back and saw her and it might have been the last time he would see her. He knew, even as he tried to not know it, just what she meant to him, beyond her mark, her power, or her role.

Centuries of towers in his hardened heart came to ruin, crumbling into sand.

_I should have staid. I should have….I should have…_

_I let her die._

He looked back up to the sky. A trace of the quarter moon peeked out from the clouds before vanishing again. Oh how he understood the compulsion then, to believe in gods, to have something or someone to pray to.

_And what does Fen'Harel, a fallen, false god pray for? For your life to be taken in exchange for hers? It would be a lie and you have nothing else to give for such a boon._

_Pray for the memory of her to be erased to wipe the regret and the sorrow from your heart?_

_Pray to believe in the lie that this is not important, that she was not important?_

Solas found his hand clutching at the jaw pendant around his neck. Digging into his numbed fingers. He felt he was going mad. The more he resisted it the more it swept through him, tearing apart everything he had known and was certain of.

_There is no one to pray to and no one to blame but yourself for causing this, for leading her to this, for letting yourself hope, and for...and still a coward, you cannot say the words?_

The compulsion to walk way from all of this was so strong Solas felt he had to hold on to something to stop from running. He wanted to leave that place and these people, to go away alone to nurse this loss until its edges were dull and its light faded. A heavy sigh lifted from him. A sigh that might have been a scream. A sigh that might have been a thousand words said in remorse. No, he would not run. Not this time.

Solas headed back into the tent and was startled by Cole, the strange boy who warned them about the templars. He had not seen him go by and now he was right in front of him, sitting next to the clerk who had shown them the path. The strange boy was mumbling something under his breath, clasping the man’s hand. A string of words flowed from him without context, without meaning to make sense of them as he rocked back and forth. Solas continued past him and as he did the boy stopped his sing song whisperings so abruptly it caught Solas off guard. Then, his voice now louder, clearer somehow as he spoke to Solas’ back.

“he is strong, so strong and so wise but so frightened...he knows the word, it is there, he knows it means love but he fears it like fire fears water….he needs the fire to do what he must, to fix what was broken….the things that hurt so much but….” He paused, as Solas turned stiffly to face him. Cole was looking right at him his face like a curious rodent and Solas felt his mouth go dry, a firm rock settled into his throat. He could almost feel him in his mind, looking, searching. He cast his eyes to the side, his voice was quiet and pleading as he spoke one word "stop". He did not look at Cole before turning away, but he heard no more form the boy and was relieved that the strange creature, whatever he was for Solas was certain now he was not just human, was kind enough to obey. 

Without a word, Solas went back to what he was doing, gently taking the bandages from the sister who he had asked for help. She noticed as he did and worked to wrap them around the injured woman's head that his hands shook. His face seemed calm, so she attributed it to the cold and thought nothing more of it.


End file.
